


Star Stuff

by paperchimes



Category: Actor RPF, Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doctor Who AU, M/M, TwelfthDoctor!Tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:27:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperchimes/pseuds/paperchimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s just an old, broken watch,” Tom shrugged with a smile, but his left hand was thumbing the circular motifs almost nostalgically.</p><p>“Couldn’t get it fixed?” Luke offered as he sipped his own coffee.</p><p>Tom pondered on the question as if it weighed tonnes.</p><p>“Come to think of it, I never <i>tried</i>…” he murmured in a faraway voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star Stuff

“Tom, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that pocketwatch…”

That was the sentence Luke greeted him with his morning coffee one day. He could remember the bold burst of the rickety heater and the warm roasty air, punctuated with the morning cafe buzz. Little florets of steam bloomed from the rim of his hot cup and the black surface rippled as he stirred in his sugar. At first, he hadn’t thought of the question, instead occupying himself with the flimsy sachet of creamer, but his assistant’s lingering gaze urged him to glance at aforementioned watch.

“It’s just an old, broken watch,” Tom shrugged with a smile, but his left hand was thumbing the circular motifs almost nostalgically.

“Couldn’t get it fixed?” Luke offered as he sipped his own coffee.

Tom pondered on the question as if it weighed tonnes.

“Come to think of it, I never _tried_ …” he murmured in a faraway voice.

“Let me see it—” Luke reached forward but his mirth wavers at Tom’s sudden jerk of his hand, as if he had burned him. “Is the face cracked or something? Because it’s alright, I won’t cut myself.”

“I’ve… never seen its face,” Tom whispered in realisation.

“Then how do you know it’s broken?” asked Luke apprehensively. “Or did you mean that the latch is broken? That’s easily fixed you know.”

But Tom didn’t catch the last sentence because he had tentatively pressed down on the top button and the pocketwatch had clicked open with surprising, almost defying ease.

For a second, everything was still, like the stagnant waters of an ice cold pond.

Then the frost died and the pond was not a pond, but an ocean. 

And that’s when he felt the weight on his shoulders. The spin of the Earth. The unbearable blow that sends him miles behind with his body still grounded. The desperate sensation of detachment. The determined gravitational pull of a rock holding onto fifty billion souls. Unimaginable numbers of galaxies and stars and planets and parallels. Memories. Tears. Laughter. Blood. Fire. Love. Pain. Day. Night. _Life_. The song of trillions of thoughts and dreams and futures all budding from each living being.

And in the epicentre of that mass of life… Loneliness.

Stinging, bitter loneliness.

“Tom,” Luke calls but he can no longer hear.

“Tom…” he tries again but to no avail. He doesn’t know how to respond to that false identity anymore.

“Tom, are you alright? You’re crying, you’ve got tears on your face.” He doesn’t realise that ‘Tom’ is lost, and that the vessel he sees in front of him has an extra heart and a different persona resonating from deep within. Not yet.

In his mind’s eye, he sees tabloids, interviews, hours before the camera. He sees pictures of himself on centre-spreads of magazines and newspapers. He sees seas of people with cardboard signs of ‘Tom’ written all over them. He sees his hand repeating the same signature over and over and over again to the point it resembles a toddler’s brush-stroke. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen, he’s attracted too much attention in this timeline. He’s a celebrity for _God’s sake_. He’s had people know his name before but this is different. Much different. And much more dangerous.

And what of Chris? Why didn’t he open the watch like he told him t—

 _Oh_. He realises as he remembers. _Chris isn’t here_.

He hadn’t been ‘here’ for awhile.

And it’s been ages since he last spoke to the real him.

Ages since the TARDIS crashed. Ages since the piercing bite of Chameleon Arch. Ages since _everything_.

But that’s all about to change.

Because the Doctor is back.

And now there’s _nothing_ that can stop him.


End file.
